Tristram of Lyonesse - I - The Sailing of the Swallow

About the middle music of the spring     Came from the castled shore of Irelands king     A fair ship stoutly sailing, eastward bound     And south by Wales and all its wonders round     To the loud rocks and ringing reaches home     That take the wild wrath of the Cornish foam,     Past Lyonesse unswallowed of the tides     And high Carlion that now the steep sea hides     To the wind-hollowed heights and gusty bays     Of sheer Tintagel, fair with famous days.     Above the stem a gilded swallow shone,     Wrought with straight wings and eyes of glittering stone     As flying sunward oversea, to bear     Green summer with it through the singing air.     And on the deck between the rowers at dawn,     As the bright sail with brightening wind was drawn,     Sat with full face against the strengthening light     Iseult, more fair than foam or dawn was white.     Her gaze was glad past loves own singing of,     And her face lovely past desire of love.     Past thought and speech her maiden motions were,     And a more golden sunrise was her hair.     The very veil of her bright flesh was made     As of light woven and moonbeam-coloured shade     More fine than moonbeams; white her eyelids shone     As snow sun-stricken that endures the sun,     And through their curled and coloured clouds of deep     Luminous lashes thick as dreams in sleep     Shone as the seas depth swallowing up the skys     The springs of unimaginable eyes.     As the waves subtler emerald is pierced through     With the utmost heavens inextricable blue,     And both are woven and molten in one sleight     Of amorous colour and implicated light     Under the golden guard and gaze of noon,     So glowed their awless amorous plenilune,     Azure and gold and ardent grey, made strange     With fiery difference and deep interchange     Inexplicable of glories multiform;     Now as the sullen sapphire swells toward storm     Foamless, their bitter beauty grew acold,     And now afire with ardour of fine gold.     Her flower-soft lips were meek and passionate,     For love upon them like a shadow sate     Patient, a foreseen vision of sweet things,     A dream with eyes fast shut and plumeless wings     That knew not what mans love or life should be,     Nor had it sight nor heart to hope or see     What thing should come, but childlike satisfied     Watched out its virgin vigil in soft pride     And unkissed expectation; and the glad     Clear cheeks and throat and tender temples had     Such maiden heat as if a roses blood     Beat in the live heart of a lily-bud.     Between the small round breasts a white way led     Heavenward, and from slight foot to slender head     The whole fair body flower-like swayed and shone     Moving, and what her light hand leant upon     Grew blossom-scented: her warm arms began     To round and ripen for delight of man     That they should clasp and circle: her fresh hands,     Like regent lilies of reflowering lands     Whose vassal firstlings, crown and star and plume,     Bow down to the empire of that sovereign bloom,     Shone sceptreless, and from her face there went     A silent light as of a God content;     Save when, more swift and keen than love or shame,     Some flash of blood, light as the laugh of flame,     Broke it with sudden beam and shining speech,     As dream by dream shot through her eyes, and each     Outshone the last that lightened, and not one     Showed her such things as should be borne and done.     Though hard against her shone the sunlike face     That in all change and wreck of time and place     Should be the star of her sweet living soul.     Nor had love made it as his written scroll     For evil will and good to read in yet;     But smooth and mighty, without scar or fret,     Fresh and high-lifted was the helmless brow     As the oak-tree flower that tops the topmost bough,     Ere it drop off before the perfect leaf;     And nothing save his name he had of grief,     The name his mother, dying as he was born,     Made out of sorrow in very sorrows scorn,     And set it on him smiling in her sight,     Tristram; who now, clothed with sweet youth and might,     As a glad witness wore that bitter name,     The second symbol of the world for fame.     Famous and full of fortune was his youth     Ere the beards bloom had left his cheek unsmooth,     And in his face a lordship of strong joy     And height of heart no chance could curb or cloy     Lightened, and all that warmed them at his eyes     Loved them as larks that kindle as they rise     Toward light they turn to music love the blue strong skies.     So like the morning through the morning moved     Tristram, a light to look on and be loved.     Song sprang between his lips and hands, and shone     Singing, and strengthened and sank down thereon     As a bird settles to the second flight,     Then from beneath his harping hands with might     Leapt, and made way and had its fill and died,     And all whose hearts were fed upon it sighed     Silent, and in them all the fire of tears     Burned as wine drunken not with lips but ears.     And gazing on his fervent hands that made     The might of music all their souls obeyed     With trembling strong subservience of delight,     Full many a maid that had him once in sight     Thought in the secret rapture of her heart     In how dark onset had these hands borne part     How oft, and were so young and sweet of skill;     And those red lips whereon the song burned still,     What words and cries of battle had they flung     Athwart the swing and shriek of swords, so young;     And eyes as glad as summer, what strange youth     Fed them so full of happy heart and truth,     That had seen sway from side to sundering side     The steel flow of that terrible springtide     That the moon rules not, but the fire and light     Of mens hearts mixed in the mid mirth of fight.     Therefore the joy and love of him they had     Made thought more amorous in them and more glad     For his fames sake remembered, and his youth     Gave his fame flowerlike fragrance and soft growth     As of a rose requickening, when he stood     Fair in their eye, a flower of faultless blood.     And that sad queen to whom his life was death,     A rose plucked forth of summer in mid breath,     A star falln out of season in mid throe     Of that lifes joy that makes the stars life glow,     Made their love sadder toward him and more strong.     And in mid change of time and fight and song     Chance cast him westward on the low sweet strand     Where songs are sung of the old green Irish land,     And the sky loves it, and the sea loves best,     And as a bird is taken to mans breast     The sweet-souled land where sorrow sweetest sings     Is wrapt round with them as with hands and wings     And taken to the seas heart as a flower.     There in the luck and light of his good hour     Came to the kings court like a noteless man     Tristram, and while some half a season ran     Abode before him harping in his hall,     And taught sweet craft of new things musical     To the dear maiden mouth and innocent hands     That for his sake are famous in all lands.     Yet was not love between them, for their fate     Lay wrapt in its appointed hour at wait,     And had no flower to show yet, and no sting.     But once being vexed with some past wound the king     Bade give him comfort of sweet baths, and then     Should Iseult watch him as his handmaiden,     For his more honour in mens sight, and ease     The hurts he had with holy remedies     Made by her mothers magic in strange hours     Out of live roots and life-compelling flowers.     And finding by the wounds shape in his side     This was the knight by whom their strength had died     And all their might in one man overthrown     Had left their shame in sight of all men shown,     She would have slain him swordless with his sword;     Yet seemed he to her so great and fair a lord     She heaved up hand and smote not; then said he,     Laughing, What comfort shall this dead man be,     Damsel? what hurt is for my blood to heal?     But set your hand not near the toothd steel     Lest the fang strike it. Yea, the fang, she said,     Should it not sting the very serpent dead     That stung mine uncle? for his slayer art thou,     And half my mothers heart is bloodless now     Through thee, that madst the veins of all her kin     Bleed in his wounds whose veins through thee ran thin.     Yet thought she how their hot chiefs violent heart     Had flung the fierce word forth upon their part     Which bade to battle the best knight that stood     On Arthurs, and so dying of his wild mood     Had set upon his conquerors flesh the seal     Of his mishallowed and anointed steel,     Whereof the venom and enchanted might     Made the sign burn here branded in her sight.     These things she stood recasting, and her soul     Subsiding till its wound of wrath were whole     Grew smooth again, as thought still softening stole     Through all its tempered passion; nor might hate     Keep high the fire against him lit of late;     But softly from his smiling sight she passed.     And peace thereafter made between them fast     Made peace between two kingdoms, when he went     Home with hands reconciled and heart content,     To bring fair truce twixt Cornwalls wild bright strand     And the long wrangling wars of that loud land.     And when full peace was struck betwixt them twain     Forth must he fare by those green straits again,     And bring back Iseult for a plighted bride     And set to reign at Mark his uncles side.     So now with feast made and all triumphs done     They sailed between the moonfall and the sun     Under the spent stars eastward; but the queen     Out of wise heart and subtle love had seen     Such things as might be, dark as in a glass,     And lest some doom of these should come to pass     Bethought her with her secret soul alone     To work some charm for marriage unison     And strike the heart of Iseult to her lord     With power compulsive more than stroke of sword.     Therefore with marvellous herbs and spells she wrought     To win the very wonder of her thought,     And brewed it with her secret hands and blest     And drew and gave out of her secret breast     To one her chosen and Iseults handmaiden,     Brangwain, and bade her hide from sight of men     This marvel covered in a golden cup,     So covering in her heart the counsel up     As in the gold the wondrous wine lay close;     And when the last shout with the last cup rose     About the bride and bridegroom bound to bed,     Then should this one word of her will be said     To her new-married maiden child, that she     Should drink with Mark this draught in unity,     And no lip touch it for her sake but theirs:     For with long love and consecrating prayers     The wine was hallowed for their mouths to pledge;     And if a drop fell from the beakers edge     That drop should Iseult hold as dear as blood     Shed from her mothers heart to do her good.     And having drunk they twain should be one heart     Who were one flesh till fleshly death should part,     Death, who parts all. So Brangwain swore, and kept     The hid thing by her while she waked or slept.     And now they sat to see the sun again     Whose light of eye had looked on no such twain     Since Galahault in the rose-time of the year     Brought Launcelot first to sight of Guenevere.     And Tristram caught her changing eyes and said:     As this day raises daylight from the dead     Might not this face the life of a dead man?     And Iseult, gazing where the sea was wan     Out of the suns way, said: I pray you not     Praise me, but tell me there in Camelot,     Saving the queen, who hath most name of fair?     I would I were a man and dwelling there,     That I might win me better praise than yours,     Even such as you have; for your praise endures,     That with great deeds ye wring from mouths of men,     But ours, for shame, where is it? Tell me then,     Since woman may not wear a better here,     Who of this praise hath most save Guenevere?     And Tristram, lightening with a laugh held in,     Surely a little praise is this to win,     A poor praise and a little! but of these     Hapless, whom love serves only with bowed knees,     Of such poor women fairer face hath none     That lifts her eyes alive against the sun     Than Arthurs sister, whom the north seas call     Mistress of isles; so yet majestical     Above the crowns on younger heads she moves,     Outlightening with her eyes our late-born loves.     Ah, said Iseult, is she more tall than I?     Look, I am tall; and struck the mast hard by,     With utmost upward reach of her bright hand;     And look, fair lord, now, when I rise and stand,     How high with feet unlifted I can touch     Standing straight up; could this queen do thus much?     Nay, over tall she must be then, like me;     Less fair than lesser women. May this be,     That still she stands the second stateliest there,     So more than many so much younger fair,     She, born when yet the king your lord was not,     And has the third knight after Launcelot     And after you to serve her? nay, sir, then     God made her for a godlike sign to men.     Ay, Tristram answered, for a sign, a sign,     Would God it were not! for no planets shine     With half such fearful forecast of mens fate     As a fair face so more unfortunate.     Then with a smile that lit not on her brows     But moved upon her red mouth tremulous     Light as a sea-birds motion oversea,     Yea, quoth Iseult, the happier hap for me,     With no such face to bring men no such fate.     Yet her might all we women born too late     Praise for good hap, who so enskied above     Not more in age excels us than mans love.     There came a glooming light on Tristrams face     Answering: God keep you better in his grace     Than to sit down beside her in mens sight.     For if men be not blind whom God gives light     And lie not in whose lips he bids truth live,     Great grief shall she be given, and greater give.     For Merlin witnessed of her years ago     That she should work woe and should suffer woe     Beyond the race of women: and in truth     Her face, a spell that knows nor age nor youth,     Like youth being soft, and subtler-eyed than age,     With lips that mock the doom her eyes presage,     Hath on it such a light of cloud and fire,     With charm and change of keen or dim desire,     And over all a fearless look of fear     Hung like a veil across its changing cheer,     Made up of fierce foreknowledge and sharp scorn,     That it were better she had not been born.     For not loves self can help a face which hath     Such insubmissive anguish of wan wrath,     Blind prescience and self-contemptuous hate     Of her own soul and heavy-footed fate,     Writ broad upon its beauty: none the less     Its fire of bright and burning bitterness     Takes with as quick a flame the sense of men     As any sunbeam, nor is quenched again     With any drop of dewfall; yea, I think     No herb of force or blood-compelling drink     Would heal a heart that ever it made hot.     Ay, and men too that greatly love her not,     Seeing the great love of her and Lamoracke,     Make no great marvel, nor look strangely back     When with his gaze about her she goes by     Pale as a breathless and star-quickening sky     Between moonrise and sunset, and moves out     Clothed with the passion of his eyes about     As night with all her stars, yet night is black;     And she, clothed warm with love of Lamoracke,     Girt with his worship as with girdling gold,     Seems all at heart anhungered and acold,     Seems sad at heart and loveless of the light,     As night, star-clothed or naked, is but night.     And with her sweet eyes sunken, and the mirth     Dead in their look as earth lies dead in earth     That reigned on earth and triumphed, Iseult said:     Is it her shame of something done and dead     Or fear of something to be born and done     That so in her souls eye puts out the sun?     And Tristram answered: Surely, as I think,     This gives her soul such bitterness to drink,     The sin born blind, the sightless sin unknown,     Wrought when the summer in her blood was blown     But scarce aflower, and spring first flushed her will     With bloom of dreams no fruitage should fulfil,     When out of vision and desire was wrought     The sudden sin that from the living thought     Leaps a live deed and dies not: then there came     On that blind sin swift eyesight like a flame     Touching the dark to death, and made her mad     With helpless knowledge that too late forbade     What was before the bidding: and she knew     How sore a life dead love should lead her through     To what sure end how fearful; and though yet     Nor with her blood nor tears her way be wet     And she look bravely with set face on fate,     Yet she knows well the serpent hour at wait     Somewhere to sting and spare not; ay, and he,     Arthur     The king, quoth Iseult suddenly,     Doth the king too live so in sight of fear?     They say sin touches not a man so near     As shame a woman; yet he too should be     Part of the penance, being more deep than she     Set in the sin.     Nay, Tristram said, for thus     It fell by wicked hap and hazardous,     That wittingly he sinned no more than youth     May sin and be assoiled of God and truth,     Repenting; since in his first year of reign     As he stood splendid with his foemen slain     And light of new-blown battles, flushed and hot     With hope and life, came greeting from King Lot     Out of his wind-worn islands oversea,     And homage to my king and fealty     Of those north seas wherein the strange shapes swim,     As from his man; and Arthur greeted him     As his good lord and courteously, and bade     To his high feast; who coming with him had     This Queen Morgause of Orkney, his fair wife,     In the green middle Maytime of her life,     And scarce in April was our kings as then,     And goodliest was he of all flowering men,     And of what graft as yet himself knew not;     But cold as rains in autumn was King Lot     And grey-grown out of season: so there sprang     Swift love between them, and all spring through sang     Light in their joyous hearing; for none knew     The bitter bond of blood between them two,     Twain fathers but one mother, till too late     The sacred mouth of Merlin set forth fate     And brake the secret seal on Arthurs birth,     And showed his ruin and his rule on earth     Inextricable, and light on lives to be.     For surely, though time slay us, yet shall we     Have such high name and lordship of good days     As shall sustain us living, and mens praise     Shall burn a beacon lit above us dead.     And of the king how shall not this be said     When any of us from any mouth has praise,     That such were men in only this kings days,     In Arthurs? yea, come shine or shade, no less     His name shall be one name with knightliness,     His fame one light with sunlight. Yet in sooth     His age shall bear the burdens of his youth     And bleed from his own bloodshed; for indeed     Blind to him blind his sister brought forth seed,     And of the child between them shall be born     Destruction: so shall God not suffer scorn,     Nor in mens souls and lives his law lie dead.     And as one moved and marvelling Iseult said:     Great pity it is and strange it seems to me     God could not do them so much right as we,     Who slay not men for witless evil done;     And these the noblest under Gods glad sun     For sin they knew not he that knew shall slay,     And smite blind men for stumbling in fair day.     What good is it to God that such should die?     Shall the suns light grow sunnier in the sky     Because their light of spirit is clean put out?     And sighing, she looked from wave to cloud about,     And even with that the full-grown feet of day     Sprang upright on the quivering water-way,     And his face burned against her meeting face     Most like a lovers thrilled with great loves grace     Whose glance takes fire and gives; the quick sea shone     And shivered like spread wings of angels blown     By the suns breath before him; and a low     Sweet gale shook all the foam-flowers of thin snow     As into rainfall of sea-roses shed     Leaf by wild leaf on that green garden-bed     Which tempests till and sea-winds turn and plough:     For rosy and fiery round the running prow     Fluttered the flakes and feathers of the spray,     And bloomed like blossoms cast by God away     To waste on the ardent water; swift the moon     Withered to westward as a face in swoon     Death-stricken by glad tidings: and the height     Throbbed and the centre quivered with delight     And the depth quailed with passion as of love,     Till like the heart of some new-mated dove     Air, light, and wave seemed full of burning rest,     With motion as of one Gods beating breast.     And her heart sprang in Iseult, and she drew     With all her spirit and life the sunrise through,     And through her lips the keen triumphant air     Sea-scented, sweeter than land-roses were,     And through her eyes the whole rejoicing east     Sun-satisfied, and all the heaven at feast     Spread for the morning; and the imperious mirth     Of wind and light that moved upon the earth,     Making the spring, and all the fruitful might     And strong regeneration of delight     That swells the seedling leaf and sapling man,     Since the first life in the first world began     To burn and burgeon through void limbs and veins,     And the first love with sharp sweet procreant pains     To pierce and bring forth roses; yea, she felt     Through her own soul the sovereign morning melt,     And all the sacred passion of the sun;     And as the young clouds flamed and were undone     About him coming, touched and burnt away     In rosy ruin and yellow spoil of day,     The sweet veil of her body and corporal sense     Felt the dawn also cleave it, and incense     With light from inward and with effluent heat     The kindling soul through fleshly hands and feet.     And as the august great blossom of the dawn     Burst, and the full sun scarce from sea withdrawn     Seemed on the fiery water a flower afloat,     So as a fire the mighty morning smote     Throughout her, and incensed with the influent hour     Her whole souls one great mystical red flower     Burst, and the bud of her sweet spirit broke     Rose-fashion, and the strong spring at a stroke     Thrilled, and was cloven, and from the full sheath came     The whole rose of the woman red as flame:     And all her Mayday blood as from a swoon     Flushed, and May rose up in her and was June.     So for a space her heart as heavenward burned:     Then with half summer in her eyes she turned,     And on her lips was April yet, and smiled,     As though the spirit and sense unreconciled     Shrank laughing back, and would not ere its hour     Let life put forth the irrevocable flower.     And the soft speech between them grew again     With questionings and records of what men     Rose mightiest, and what names for love or fight     Shone starriest overhead of queen or knight.     There Tristram spake of many a noble thing,     High feast and storm of tournay round the king,     Strange quest by perilous lands of marsh and brake     And circling woods branch-knotted like a snake     And places pale with sins that they had seen,     Where was no life of red fruit or of green     But all was as a dead face wan and dun;     And bowers of evil builders whence the sun     Turns silent, and the moon holds hardly light     Above them through the sick and star-crossed night;     And of their hands through whom such holds lay waste,     And all their strengths dishevelled and defaced     Fell ruinous, and were not from north to south:     And of the might of Merlins ancient mouth,     The son of no mans loins, begot by doom     In speechless sleep out of a spotless womb;     For sleeping among graves where none had rest     And ominous houses of dead bones unblest     Among the grey grass rough as old rent hair     And wicked herbage whitening like despair     And blown upon with blasts of dolorous breath     From gaunt rare gaps and hollow doors of death,     A maid unspotted, senseless of the spell,     Felt not about her breathe some thing of hell     Whose child and hers was Merlin; and to him     Great light from God gave sight of all things dim     And wisdom of all wondrous things, to say     What root should bear what fruit of night or day,     And sovereign speech and counsel higher than man;     Wherefore his youth like age was wise and wan,     And his age sorrowful and fain to sleep;     Yet should sleep never, neither laugh nor weep,     Till in some depth of deep sweet land or sea     The heavenly hands of holier Nimue,     That was the nurse of Launcelot, and most sweet     Of all that move with magical soft feet     Among us, being of lovelier blood and breath,     Should shut him in with sleep as kind as death:     For she could pass between the quick and dead:     And of her love toward Pelleas, for whose head     Love-wounded and world-wearied she had won     A place beyond all pain in Avalon;     And of the fire that wasted afterward     The loveless eyes and bosom of Ettarde,     In whose false love his faultless heart had burned;     And now being rapt from her, her lost heart yearned     To seek him, and passed hungering out of life:     And after all the thunder-hours of strife     That roared between King Claudas and King Ban     How Nimues mighty nursling waxed to man,     And how from his first field such grace he got     That all mens hearts bowed down to Launcelot,     And how the high prince Galahault held him dear     And led him even to love of Guenevere     And to that kiss which made break forth as fire     The laugh that was the flower of his desire,     The laugh that lightened at her lips for bliss     To win from Love so great a lovers kiss:     And of the toil of Balen all his days     To reap but thorns for fruit and tears for praise,     Whose hap was evil as his heart was good,     And all his works and ways by wold and wood     Led through much pain to one last labouring day     When blood for tears washed grief with life away:     And of the kin of Arthur, and their might;     The misborn head of Mordred, sad as night,     With cold waste cheeks and eyes as keen as pain,     And the close angry lips of Agravaine;     And gracious Gawain, scattering words as flowers,     The kindliest head of worldly paramours;     And the fair hand of Gareth, found in fight     Strong as a sea-beasts tushes and as white;     And of the kings self, glorious yet and glad     For all the toil and doubt of doom he had,     Clothed with mens loves and full of kingly days.     Then Iseult said: Let each knight have his praise     And each good man good witness of his worth;     But when men laud the second name on earth,     Whom would they praise to have no worldly peer     Save him whose love makes glorious Guenevere?     Nay, Tristram said, such man as he is none.     What, said she, there is none such under sun     Of all the large earths living? yet I deemed     Men spake of one, but maybe men that dreamed,     Fools and tongue-stricken, witless, babblers breed,     That for all high things was his peer indeed     Save this one highest, to be so loved and love.     And Tristram: Little wit had these thereof;     For there is none such in the world as this.     Ay, upon land, quoth Iseult, none such is,     I doubt not, nor where fighting folk may be;     But were there none such between sky and sea,     The worlds whole worth were poorer than I wist.     And Tristram took her flower-white hand and kissed,     Laughing; and through his fair face as in shame     The light blood lightened. Hear they no such name?     She said; and he, If there be such a word,     I wot the queens poor harper hath not heard.     Then, as the fuller-feathered hours grew long,     He holp to speed their warm slow feet with song.     Love, is it morning risen or night deceased     That makes the mirth of this triumphant east?     Is it bliss given or bitterness put by     That makes most glad mens hearts at loves high feast?     Grief smiles, joy weeps, that day should liveand die.     Is it with souls thirst or with bodys drouth     That summer yearns out sunward to the south,     With all the flowers that when thy birth drew nigh     Were molten in one rose to make thy mouth?     O love, what care though day should live and die?     Is the sun glad of all the love on earth,     The spirit and sense and work of things and worth?     Is the moon sad because the month must fly     And bring her death that can but bring back birth?     For all these things as day must live and die.     Love, is it day that makes thee thy delight     Or thou that seest day made out of thy light?     Love, as the sun and sea are thou and I,     Sea without sun dark, sun without sea bright;     The sun is one though day should live and die.     O which is elder, night or light, who knows?     And life or love, which first of these twain grows?     For life is born of love to wail and cry,     And love is born of life to heal his woes,     And light of night, that day should live and die.     O sun of heaven above the worldly sea,     O very love, what light is this of thee!     My sea of soul is deep as thou art high,     But all thy light is shed through all of me,     As loves through love, while day shall live and die.     Nay, said Iseult, your song is hard to read.     Ay? said he: or too light a song to heed,     Too slight to follow, it may be? Who shall sing     Of love but as a churl before a king     If by loves worth men rate his worthiness?     Yet as the poor churls worth to sing is less,     Surely the more shall be the great kings grace     To show for churlish love a kindlier face.     No churl, she said, but one in soothsayers wise     Who tells but truths that help no more than lies.     I have heard men sing of love a simpler way     Than these wrought riddles made of night and day,     Like jewelled reins whereon the rhyme-bells hang.     And Tristram smiled and changed his song and sang.     The breath between my lips of lips not mine,     Like spirit in sense that makes pure sense divine,     Is as life in them from the living sky     That entering fills my heart with blood of thine     And thee with me, while day shall live and die.     Thy soul is shed into me with thy breath,     And in my heart each heartbeat of thee saith     How in thy life the lifesprings of me lie,     Even one life to be gathered of one death     In me and thee, though day may live and die.     Ah, who knows now if in my veins it be     My blood that feels life sweet, or blood of thee,     And this thine eyesight kindled in mine eye     That shows me in thy flesh the soul of me,     For thine made mine, while day may live and die?     Ah, who knows yet if one be twain or one,     And sunlight separable again from sun,     And I from thee with all my lifesprings dry,     And thou from me with all thine heartbeats done,     Dead separate souls while day shall live and die?     I see my soul within thine eyes, and hear     My spirit in all thy pulses thrill with fear,     And in my lips the passion of thee sigh,     And music of me made in mine own ear;     Am I not thou while day shall live and die?     Art thou not I as I thy love am thou?     So let all things pass from us; we are now,     For all that was and will be, who knows why?     And all that is and is not, who knows how?     Who knows? God knows why day should live and die.     And Iseult mused and spake no word, but sought     Through all the hushed ways of her tongueless thought     What face or covered likeness of a face     In what veiled hour or dream-determined place     She seeing might take for loves face, and believe     This was the spirit to whom all spirits cleave.     For that sweet wonder of the twain made one     And each one twain, incorporate sun with sun,     Star with star molten, soul with soul imbued,     And all the souls works, all their multitude,     Made one thought and one vision and one song,     Love, this thing, this, laid hand on her so strong     She could not choose but yearn till she should see.     So went she musing down her thoughts; but he,     Sweet-hearted as a bird that takes the sun     With clear strong eyes and feels the glad god run     Bright through his blood and wide rejoicing wings,     And opens all himself to heaven and sings,     Made her mind light and full of noble mirth     With words and songs the gladdest grown on earth,     Till she was blithe and high of heart as he.     So swam the Swallow through the springing sea.     And while they sat at speech as at a feast,     Came a light wind fast hardening forth of the east     And blackening till its might had marred the skies;     And the sea thrilled as with heart-sundering sighs     One after one drawn, with each breath it drew,     And the green hardened into iron blue,     And the soft light went out of all its face.     Then Tristram girt him for an oarsmans place     And took his oar and smote, and toiled with might     In the east winds full face and the strong seas spite     Labouring; and all the rowers rowed hard, but he     More mightily than any wearier three.     And Iseult watched him rowing with sinless eyes     That loved him but in holy girlish wise     For noble joy in his fair manliness     And trust and tender wonder; none the less     She thought if God had given her grace to be     Man, and make war on danger of earth and sea,     Even such a man she would be; for his stroke     Was mightiest as the mightier water broke,     And in sheer measure like strong music drave     Clean through the wet weight of the wallowing wave;     And as a tune before a great king played     For triumph was the tune their strong strokes made,     And sped the ship through with smooth strife of oars     Over the mid seas grey foam-paven floors,     For all the loud breach of the waves at will.     So for an hour they fought the storm out still,     And the shorn foam spun from the blades, and high     The keel sprang from the wave-ridge, and the sky     Glared at them for a breaths space through the rain;     Then the bows with a sharp shock plunged again     Down, and the sea clashed on them, and so rose     The bright stem like one panting from swift blows,     And as a swimmers joyous beaten head     Rears itself laughing, so in that sharp stead     The light ship lifted her long quivering bows     As might the man his buffeted strong brows     Out of the wave-breach; for with one stroke yet     Went all mens oars together, strongly set     As to loud music, and with hearts uplift     They smote their strong way through the drench and drift:     Till the keen hour had chafed itself to death     And the east wind fell fitfully, breath by breath,     Tired; and across the thin and slackening rain     Sprang the face southward of the sun again.     Then all they rested and were eased at heart;     And Iseult rose up where she sat apart,     And with her sweet soul deepening her deep eyes     Cast the furs from her and subtle embroideries     That wrapped her from the storming rain and spray,     And shining like all April in one day,     Hair, face, and throat dashed with the straying showers,     She stood the first of all the whole worlds flowers,     And laughed on Tristram with her eyes, and said,     I too have heart then, I was not afraid.     And answering some light courteous word of grace     He saw her clear face lighten on his face     Unwittingly, with unenamoured eyes,     For the last time. A live man in such wise     Looks in the deadly face of his fixed hour     And laughs with lips wherein he hath no power     To keep the life yet some five minutes space.     So Tristram looked on Iseult face to face     And knew not, and she knew not. The last time,     The last that should be told in any rhyme     Heard anywhere on mouths of singing men     That ever should sing praise of them again;     The last hour of their hurtless hearts at rest,     The last that peace should touch them, breast to breast,     The last that sorrow far from them should sit,     This last was with them, and they knew not it.     For Tristram being athirst with toil now spake,     Saying, Iseult, for all dear loves labours sake     Give me to drink, and give me for a pledge     The touch of four lips on the beakers edge.     And Iseult sought and would not wake Brangwain     Who slept as one half dead with fear and pain,     Being tender-natured; so with hushed light feet     Went Iseult round her, with soft looks and sweet     Pitying her pain; so sweet a spirited thing     She was, and daughter of a kindly king.     And spying what strange bright secret charge was kept     Fast in that maids white bosom while she slept,     She sought and drew the gold cup forth and smiled     Marvelling, with such light wonder as a child     That hears of glad sad life in magic lands;     And bare it back to Tristram with pure hands     Holding the love-draught that should be for flame     To burn out of them fear and faith and shame,     And lighten all their life up in mens sight,     And make them sad for ever. Then the knight     Bowed toward her and craved whence had she this strange thing     That might be spoil of some dim Asian king,     By starlight stolen from some waste place of sands,     And a maid bore it here in harmless hands.     And Iseult, laughing, Other lords that be     Feast, and their men feast after them; but we,     Our men must keep the best wine back to feast     Till they be full and we of all men least     Feed after them and fain to fare so well:     So with mine handmaid and your squire it fell     That hid this bright thing from us in a wile:     And with light lips yet full of their swift smile,     And hands that wist not though they dug a grave,     Undid the hasps of gold, and drank, and gave,     And he drank after, a deep glad kingly draught:     And all their life changed in them, for they quaffed     Death; if it be death so to drink, and fare     As men who change and are what these twain were.     And shuddering with eyes full of fear and fire     And heart-stung with a serpentine desire     He turned and saw the terror in her eyes     That yearned upon him shining in such wise     As a star midway in the midnight fixed.     Their Galahault was the cup, and she that mixed;     Nor other hand there needed, nor sweet speech     To lure their lips together; each on each     Hung with strange eyes and hovered as a bird     Wounded, and each mouth trembled for a word;     Their heads neared, and their hands were drawn in one,     And they saw dark, though still the unsunken sun     Far through fine rain shot fire into the south;     And their four lips became one burning mouth.